Dignity
by springburn
Summary: This fic will cover the Goolding Enquiry, Malcolm's arrest and his subsequent trial and acquittal. Then chart Malcolm's relationship with Sam, and his struggle to find a new life and purpose. This is very much a fic of how I see Malcolm Tucker. I will spend a little time on Malc
1. Chapter 1

It is not essential, but might be helpful, to watch TTOI series 4 eps 6 and 7, to understand this story. This fic will cover the Goolding Enquiry, Malcolm's arrest and his subsequent trial and acquittal. Then chart Malcolm's relationship with Sam, and his struggle to find a new life and purpose. This is very much a fic of how I see Malcolm Tucker. I will spend a little time on Malcolm's background, as I see it. I realise it may not be everyone's interpretation but I hope some of you will see him the same way I do.  
It will probably be in three or maybe four parts, depending on how it pans out.

Dignity. (Part One).

Malcolm sat in the Green Room adjacent to the Enquiry Suite, listening to the testimonies. One by one, his co-workers and colleagues, fed him to the wolves.  
In short, from very early on, he knew he was being roundly fucked. Every single person at the Goolding enquiry lied. Without exception. However, it was quite clear that there was to be only one scapegoat. It was pay back time.  
First, Stewart Pearson, lit the fuse, he named Malcolm directly. Accusing him, outright, of leaking. Others soon added more kindling to make sure the bonfire burned. Nicola; with an axe to grind, Ollie; keen to step into his shoes; Fergus Williams, the clever little shit, who manipulated the panel away from himself and towards Malcolm. Oh yes, he was the big bad wolf, he was the bully, the enforcer, the instigator of all that was bad. While they all wore their haloes low on their brows.  
The fire caught hold, was liberally doused with petrol, and Malcolm was to be burned at the stake.  
In some ways it was almost a relief. The career he had built, the hard slog he had endured, his unstinting loyalty to The Party, HIS party, it was all reaching it's zenith and the only way, now, was down. Down and out...and he almost welcomed it. His time was up, he was bone weary, he was done and he wanted release.

Throughout the whole sorry affair, Sam was his one constant. As he watched the screen, he watched her in particular. She sat right behind each one, as they gave their traitorous testimonies. Each player taking it in turns to stab Caesar in the back. Her face as impassive as she could contrive, but she didn't fool him. She couldn't hide her feelings completely, and Malcolm loved her for it.

If he was honest with himself, since rescuing her from the evil clutches of Russell Brewer at the party, Malcolm had 'got it bad'. His feelings for her were a constant ache, one he had not felt for a VERY long time indeed. Acting upon them, however, was quite a different matter. Affairs with work colleagues were not on his agenda and whatever his instincts, beyond a mild flirtation, things HAD to stay professional.  
There were times when she looked so lovely, that he longed to kiss her. Yearned to stroke that silky hair. Nothing would have been nicer than to share a meal, a bottle of wine, then ask her back to his place...but he forced himself to push it down. Lock his feelings away and...carry on.

From his humble beginnings, everything in Malcolm Tucker's life had been a fight. He was an astute, clever child. Sensitive and alert. Quick witted and observant. Determined that his working class background would not be a hindrance. At 11 he won a scholarship to the local Grammar school, where, at first, he excelled, particularly in written English. His peers, however, were not impressed with their somewhat awkward, bright but lanky counterpart and he began to be the victim of merciless bullying.  
His poor relationship with his father, meant he had to rely solely on his own ingenuity to outfox his persecutors. And he learned fast. A heavy drinker, disillusioned with the Glasgow tenement life that was his lot, his Dad frequently sought solace in the whiskey bottle. Often abusive and violent to his wife, Malcolm watched in silence as she suffered. Any misdemeanours on his son's part received a belting, and it was only a matter of time, as Malcolm, grew older, and stronger, that something would have to give. The occasion his father went too far, was the occasion when Malcolm punched his father to the ground, and left home. Never to return. He was 15.

Possessing good communication skills as he did, he managed to secure a post on the local newspaper. The work ethic was never a problem, he put in the hours, worked his way in and up. This was probably the apprenticeship for the Malcolm Tucker he was to become. At 21 he moved to The Herald and acquired a wife along the way.  
Jess was a sweet girl, they were young, too young, but in love and that was all that mattered. Ambition was a fickle mistress, however, she brooked no competition. Moving down to London, where superior jobs beckoned, Malcolm eventually switched from journalism to the lower echelons of Government Communications.  
It was a gradual souring, a poisoning that eventually ended his marriage. Loneliness, homesickness and her husband's relentless drive to succeed, against the odds, drove Jess away.  
Their divorce was a great sadness to Malcolm. He saw it as a direct failure on his part and he never really forgave himself or forgot.  
The knee-jerk reaction was to throw himself into his job. To the expense of everything else. The Glasgow boy fitted in no better here than he did at Grammar School. His colleagues were from Oxford or Cambridge, or Public Schoolboys, their backgrounds privileged. It made Malcolm all the more determined.  
So it was, that, day by day, year by year, he built up his armour. His skin became impervious to hurt, he pushed himself relentlessly. He bulldozed all in his wake. He metamorphosed into the shouty, sweary, all encompassing force. He was hard on himself, working long hours, denying himself, keeping a punishing schedule that would kill lesser men. Yet, for him it became his life force. Sustaining him. His dedication, his loyalty to The Party, were the elixir that kept him alive. He thrived on the adrenaline rush, the daily lurching from one crisis to another. As his power grew, he became more ruthless.  
The people who worked around him and against him, for the most part, disliked him intently. Earning a bollocking from Malcolm was their primary fear. He was the subject of much venom. His personal life became a fascination for them. They speculated about his unfortunate partner. Malcolm still wore his wedding ring. To be honest, he wore it to remind himself of his failure, nothing more. It was a badge, to remind him of better times. He enjoyed the speculation it caused! Where was this wife? Were they still together or was she under the floorboards? Was it even a wife? Could he be gay?  
Malcolm, was, of course, well aware of the talk. It amused him greatly to keep them guessing. Sometimes he would throw in a homophobic remark, or a gay reference, or talk about hookers or women he had conquered, just to keep them on their toes. The truth was somewhat different, however. Malcolm was as straight as a die, in fact he loved women...but any kind of relationship in his exalted position, was nigh on impossible. Any female on his arm would be the victim of press attention, any liaison had to be first vetted by the security services. The implications of being seen anywhere untoward could be disastrous, so even a visit to a brothel would be fraught with danger.  
The result was a very lonely man. Starved of affection, who lived only for his work. No one was allowed close. Barriers were impenetrable, he locked himself inside himself and never let anyone in.

Until Sam.

Right from the start Sam was not intimidated in the least, by Malcolm's bluster. Besides, to her he was never the shouty, sweary Malcolm. To her he was considerate, genuine and really quite funny. She had heard him banter with Jamie, and considered him to be one of the few people Malcolm trusted, to a small degree, or who he would describe in any way as a friend.  
After they parted ways, Malcolm seemed to turn in on himself even more. The hours he worked were, frankly, ludicrous. How he stayed on his feet some days, Sam would never know. He seemed to push himself harder and harder, as time went on, for less and less reward. Yet, she noticed, he always had time for the 'little person'. He would yell a hail storm at a government minister, and then exchange pleasantries with a tea lady, or a message courier. He knew the names of the cleaner's children, and asked after them. His niece and nephew would send him pictures they'd drawn, which he hung proudly on his office wall.  
Sam, unlike almost everyone else, could see THIS Malcolm Tucker, and she fell in love with him!

******"Are you finished?"  
"Yes, I'm finished, but you didn't finish me"******

******"We need to drop Malcolm. He's a dead man"******

Speaking quietly into his mobile, outside Dan Miller's office, Malcolm knew the game was up. His only concern now was that he could resign, go to the police station, with Greg Fraser, his lawyer, then hole up at home, with a shred of dignity intact. Unfortunately, thanks to Ollie, that was not to be. It was Sam he entrusted with the task of phoning Greg, but more, she could not do. The fiasco at Brentford, and his subsequent rush to Hackney, almost pleading with Ollie for mercy, was the ultimate ignominy.  
Malcolm would never, ever, as long as he lived, forgive that little wank stain for what he did.

Back at the department, watching Malcolm's face, on the news, as he stood on the steps of the Hackney Police Station, Sam sobbed, bitterly. Luckily, there was no one there to see her. In various offices, minions gathered round plasma screens, to gloat at the downfall of the once mighty Lord. She hated every single one of them and wanted no more part of this nasty, sordid world.  
Affording herself the luxury of telling them all to go fuck themselves, however, was not on the agenda. Not yet. She had work to do. Locked in her desk drawer, were discs of Malcolm's files, containing all the dirt he had collected on various people over the years. Without a second thought, she began downloading those files onto a USB stick, which she then secreted in a tampon holder in her handbag.  
She had just broken the law. She didn't care.  
Malcolm's Blackberry was on his desk. She copied his contact numbers from it and returned it to its place.  
Reaching for her keyboard she began typing her resignation letter.

The weeks following these events were long and arduous for both of them. Sam had couriered the information she'd 'liberated' to Malcolm's house, that evening. She received no reply. Malcolm was released on bail, pending the court hearing.  
During that time she had no contact with him whatever...and she was bereft. Each day the ache she felt became more acute.  
The trial began and she attended everyday. Sitting in the public gallery. It startled her to see him standing in the dock. He was pallid and grey, thin as a rake, his eyes somehow dull and distant. Shoulders hunched and head bowed, he looked 10 years older. Sam was shocked, how desperately she wanted to hold him!  
Never once did he glance up at her, or anyone else. He was like a beaten man, humbled, desolate, rudderless in the storm.  
On the day of the verdict, which she had been sure would be an acquittal, she watched his shoulders drop, just by the slightest amount. Saw a tight intake of breath and a bite of the lip, for the merest of seconds.  
Something inside her, took over at that moment. She HAD to be by his side.  
When she reached him and slid her hand in his, he looked down at her as if in a daze. A mixture of questioning, disbelief and desperation, all in one glance.  
"It's over Malcolm, let's go!"

So this is the first instalment. The next will chart the aftermath of the trial and Sam and Malcolm's relationship in the first year...


	2. Broken (part two)

This fic will cover the Goolding Enquiry, Malcolm's arrest and his subsequent trial and acquittal. Then chart Malcolm's relationship with Sam, and his struggle to find a new life and purpose. This is very much a fic of how I see Malcolm Tucker. I will spend a little time on Malcolm's background, as I see it. I realise it may not be everyone's interpretation but I hope some of you will see him the same way I do.  
It will probably be in three or maybe four parts, depending on how it pans out.  
This second part follows directly from the last paragraph of After the Party. This chapter was inspired by the John Legend song 'All of Me' give it a listen, the words are wonderful and it's very fitting!

BROKEN (part two)

The cab swung into Malcolm's street. A whole posse of press were camped on the pavement outside the house.  
"Fuck!"  
Malcolm lent forward to speak to the driver.  
"Drive on, don't stop!"  
Passing by his house, the cab continued on its way. Turning the corner, they headed for Sam's flat.  
Still grasping her hand, from when they had kissed, he took a few deep breaths and puffed out his cheeks. Glancing at him, Sam wondered if he was about to vomit.  
Reaching her place, they paid the cabby and hurried inside.  
"Christ, shit...!" He stumbled, legs almost giving way.  
The relief that flooded through Malcolm when the door closed behind him was palpable. He leaned heavily against the wall, hand at his neck, wrenching at his tie and collar button, heaving and retching, although nothing came up.  
Sam took his arm and lead him into the living room. Pale and sweating, damp grey hair plastered against his head, he shook from head to foot as the reaction to the previous few weeks overtook him.

Shock is a mysterious thing, it creeps up and robs us of our self control.

Seating him, and taking his cold, clammy hand in hers...  
"It's OK Malc, it's over, it's over!"  
Hot, sweet tea cupped in his trembling fingers, he leaned back into the cushions, and let out a juddering sigh.  
Leaving him for a few moments to take their cups to the kitchen, Sam returned to find him, on his side on the sofa, knees drawn up in the foetal position, head curled downwards, hands clasped over his body, fast asleep.  
Stroking his fevered brow, pulling a blanket over him and tucking it around his legs, she left him to rest.

Malcolm slept for 18 hours straight. During that time he barely moved, he lay, inert, still curled like a small child, his breathing shallow. Lips pale. Sam sat, watching him for some time, noting the curve of his mouth, his Roman profile, impossibly long eyelashes, and the way his eyelids fluttered as he slept. Eventually retiring to bed, exhausted beyond her comprehension, she, too, fell into a dreamless slumber.

The week that followed was long and tough.  
Malcolm did not leave the flat. He couldn't return home until the press had given up and gone away, so he became like a restless caged animal.  
Shuffling around the rooms in borrowed sweat pants and T-shirt, he barely spoke and hardly ate. Sam had to coax him to take a shower. He couldn't be bothered to shave and soon resembled a haunted, vampire-like tramp. His nights were torture, he slept in Sam's spare bed, but she was woken frequently by him crying out in his dreams. Reaching his side, she would find him soaked with perspiration, almost delirious. He would clutch her hand until he relaxed back into sleep. He was always awake again before 5am.  
Part of Sam wanted him to rage, rant and cry, letting the pain out of his system, but years of holding it in, locking it away behind his steel facade, didn't make that easy. He couldn't cry, couldn't let go. He was a dead husk, eyes dull and listless, jaw set, unable to feel emotion of any kind.  
It was pointless trying to reason with him and Sam's instinct was to let him wallow, let him work it through. She was there for him, when he was ready, when the time was right, she would be whatever he needed, whatever he wanted.

Malcolm had not thought to be like this. Everything that had ever happened to him in the past, he had dealt with and moved on. This was different. In short, he was broken man. His job was a crutch, that he leaned on, and it was gone. It was his whole existence and now there was nothing left. In his mind he saw it as being similar to a drug addict having their supply suddenly cut off. For weeks he had been holding himself together, but the rug had been pulled from under his feet, and his bereavement was total.  
He could not cope with anything other than simply existing, at the moment. Making it through each day and each night, and then the next and the next. His responses cauterised and numbed. He felt nothing but emptiness and shame.  
Sam was almost always there, just being around, he found her calm presence comforting. She only left him for short periods, to shop for food, or other essentials.  
At the end of the week, returning from one of these forays into the outside world, she found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. The kettle was on and he was making tea.  
This was a breakthrough...up until now he had seldom moved from the couch, without her persuasion. Putting down her carrier bags, she opened her arms to him and he stepped into her embrace with a grateful sigh.  
Holding him close and rubbing his back gently with her splayed hand, she felt his shoulders begin to shake.  
"Sam!"  
His sobs washed over him like a breach in flood defences; starting quietly and building to a torrent of raw emotion. Clinging to her, saying her name, over and over, as she soothed and caressed him.  
No words were really necessary, so she just let him weep.  
"I'm a fucking Jessie," he whispered, voice thick and broken, "I'm weak. Look at me, the great Malcolm Tucker, how can you bear to be near me? Crying like a fucking baby, it's pathetic!"  
"No Malc...this is strength. This is you being strong enough to show just what a real man you are. You should be proud. There is no shame in this, none at all. You are stronger than you know."  
"You will get through this, it will get easier and if you want me, I'm here for you."  
"Fuck knows why! Why you'd throw yourself away on a useless old fucker like me," he retorted, sniffing as his tears subsided.  
" Because I love you, that's why, stupid!" She gently smoothed his wet face with her thumb,  
" you are not useless, you are magnificent, you are more of a man now than you ever were before. You may not think so now, but you will again, I have complete faith in you."  
Unable to reply, Malcolm buried his head against her neck and shoulder, drawing her as close as he possibly could.

His recovery had begun, but it would be a lengthy process.

Able, at last to return to his own house after that first week, Malcolm slowly began to take stock. Financially he was secure, at least for a while. Sam had resigned from her position, but had been reluctant to actively seek a new post, until she felt sure that her former boss was on a more even keel. Malcolm could afford to keep them both, at least for a while, and she was not without means herself. Besides, she was not ready to be separated from him, while he most needed her.

Their relationship had still not progressed beyond kissing and hugging but Sam was fine with that. She had not felt that Malcolm was capable of more in the first instance and had not wanted to push him before he was ready. He was wrung out, physically and emotionally, he needed time.

It was their first evening together in his home, he seemed more relaxed in his own environment, with his own things around him. For the first time, they sat together at the dining table and ate a proper meal and shared a bottle of wine. It was the most that Malcolm had eaten for well over a month.  
Afterwards they curled up together on his large comfortable sofa, in companionable silence. Cheek resting on the top of her head, hands clasped around her, Malcolm dozed off.  
Sam woke from a deep slumber...it was past midnight. Stretching and yawning, she tried to slip from his arms, to tidy the kitchen and think about going to bed.  
"Sam?" Malcolm came to with a jolt... "Where are you going? Please...stay with me tonight, I don't want to sleep alone."  
His eyes were red rimmed and swimming with unshed tears. She didn't answer, but took his hand, leading him upstairs as he stumbled blindly.  
He sat on the edge of the bed, hesitant, unwilling to take the lead.  
"Christ, Sam, it's been a fucking long time...I don't even know if I can do this!"  
"Shhhhhhh!" She breathed, "don't think, just kiss me, you can manage that!"  
His lips touched hers in the softest of kisses, tentative, gentle. She opened her mouth in response, and his tongue touched hers, exploring, tasting. She sighed and relaxed into him as his arms encircled her.  
"God, you taste so good," he whispered, and ducked his head to continue down the line of her jaw and neck, testing with his mouth, the spots that made her gasp with pleasure.  
Sam had imagined these moments so often in her thoughts, that she could barely believe it was actually happening.  
Easing his T-shirt over his head, she stroked his chest and down his arms. Feeling the spare frame, taut muscle under lean body. He hissed his approval, as he found her mouth again, deepening the kiss, while his hand slid under her blouse, caressing her breasts.  
Heat pooled between her legs, but she still held back a little, anxious not to rush him.  
Cradling her, Malcolm gradually lowered her backwards onto the pillows and she could feel him, hard against her.  
Everything, to Malcolm, seemed to melt away, as he touched this beautiful woman, who, for some mad, inexplicable reason, beyond his comprehension, loved him, wanted him. He floated on a haze of passion, sensations spiralling through him like corkscrews. His need urged him forward, and overcame his insecurity, he wanted her, desperately. To possess her, to make her his, to feel himself inside her, filling her, taking her. It was almost more than he could bear.  
In normal circumstances he would have taken more time to discover what she liked, caress and tease her, touch her with his fingers, his mouth, but right now he could only focus on completion. Fumbling and awkward but reluctant to break contact, they helped each other out of their remaining clothes, relishing the feeling of skin against skin.  
Sam reached down between their bodies and touched him...his hips bucked and he gasped, almost crying out, the feeling was so intense.  
"Malcolm...I...I need..."  
"Fuck, Sam, I'm not going to last...I'm so far gone I can barely hold myself together..."  
With her hand to guide him, he entered her, pushing deep, the rush of love, and lust that he felt almost overwhelmed him. Waves of pleasure washed over his body, building with each stroke, he felt her raise her hips to meet him, as she moaned,  
"Oh God...Malcolm!"  
His name on her lips sent him over the edge, as she, in turn, came, beneath him. He cried aloud, a primal groan from deep in his throat, their bodies undulating as one.  
He collapsed down onto her chest, his arms giving way. He went to pieces then, weeping and shaking, the magnitude of what had just happened and what it meant to him, hitting him with the force of a hammer blow.  
Sam wrapped herself, legs and arms around him, holding him in place. Crooning to him, petting him, hushing him. He finally rolled on his side, breaking contact but still holding her, breathless, as his pounding heart calmed, and his heat subsided.  
"I'm sorry," he grinned sheepishly, "I'm not usually that quick, I'll do better next time!"  
Sam laughed and the sound made Malcolm's heart lurch.  
"I'm glad there's going to be a next time!"  
"I think you were pretty bloody wonderful!"  
Pulling him close for a long, slow, post-coital kiss, she let out a sigh of bliss,  
"I love you Malcolm Tucker and I don't care who knows it."  
"I still don't have a fucking clue why," he smiled, "you could have anyone you wanted! You're fucking gorgeous and I'm a wreck!"  
"But that's just it, I don't want anyone else," she replied, raising her head to look at him," the first time I met you, I felt we were perfectly suited. I felt we had an understanding, and that someday, we would be like this...I was sure then, and I'm sure now."  
"I don't deserve you, I don't deserve anyone," he looked suddenly sad," I fucked up my marriage, I fucked up my life, I'm poison, I drive people away."  
" Well, you're not driving me anywhere, I'm right where I want to be, Malcolm. By your side and that's where I'm staying, for as long as you'll have me!"  
"Then I'll have you for always," Malcolm choked, "because I'm not fucking up again, this time I'm doing it right. I've got a lot of years to catch up on!"


	3. Healing

Let us speak, though we show all our faults and weaknesses, - for it is a sign of strength to be weak, to know it, and out with it - not in a set way and ostentatiously, though, but incidentally and without premeditation.

**Herman Melville**

**Chapter Three.**

**Healing.**

It was still early when Sam opened bleary eyes. The bed beside her was empty, it took her a few moments to think where she was. Had the previous night actually happened? It didn't seem real in the cold light of day.

She stretched like a cat and turned over. Malcolm's head appeared in the doorway,

"Oh, good, you're awake!"

Wrapped in a dark plaid cotton robe, feet bare, hair standing to attention comically, he sidled into the bedroom carrying a tray. Hot toast and a cafetière, cups and milk and sugar.

"Wow! Is this the real you?" Sam giggled, "only I could definitely get used to breakfast in bed! Shame you get up so bloody early though!"

"Yeah, sorry," he replied, somewhat sheepishly, "my body clock is set for crazy hours!"

It was the first of many mornings they would wake together, but this would always remain in their memories, the first morning of the rest of their lives.

Breaking from his kiss, Sam wiped her lips,

"You taste of butter...it's all down your chin!"

Laughter, had been a sound she seldom heard from the workaday Mr Tucker. It was like a babbling brook, musical and clear, it rocked his tummy and made his shoulders shake.

It was wonderful.

Unhappy with his performance of the previous night, Malcolm was keen to make amends, greasy face or not!

He would show her what his mouth could do!

Starting by kissing her cheeks, eyelids, and nose, then capturing her lips over and over again. Moving down the line of her jaw and neck, nipping, sucking gently, before tracing across her collar bones and between her breasts. Her body arched as he caressed her nipples with his tongue, before sliding slowly towards her belly.

He hummed his appreciation with each new sensation. This was all about pleasing her, finding what she liked, giving her pleasure...and he certainly knew what he was doing!

By the time he reached between her thighs, Sam was gasping , pushing herself towards him for more, she wanted him to adore where he liked, bring her close, but, mostly, she wanted him.

"Please ...Malcolm,"

The only words she could breathe out. Crawling back up her body, he kissed her deep and slow, she could taste herself on him and it drove her crazy. This time, he held off for her, let the fire inside her build and build until she could no longer control it. The moment of release was so intense for both of them, that they cried out as one, before falling, falling into a glorious haze of oblivion.

"Do you realise, you've not been outside the door for well over a fortnight!"

Sam was in desperate need of some fresh air. Another day watching Malcolm shuffle around in sweat pants and an old baggy T-shirt, was not on the cards. It's true, he had started shaving again, and had consented to her trimming his hair, but, he seemed reluctant to leave his home.

It was a beautiful day, however and after loading a canvas bag with flask, sandwiches and a rug, she decided to tackle him.

"Come on Malc, change those clothes, we're going over to Greenwich!"

A dubious frown, was his reply, but Sam was determined, she would brook no refusal.

"You need some sun on your face, you look like you sleep in a coffin!"

Giving a resigned sigh, he went in search of some jeans and a fleece.

For someone so accustomed to being in the public eye, Malcolm found the journey almost unbearable. On the Tube he kept his head low and held Sam's hand VERY tightly. They switched to the DLR, which was less crowded and he allowed himself to relax a little. He wasn't really quite sure what the problem was. He just knew, he didn't want to be recognised, pointed at, didn't want anyone to stare. No surreptitious iPhone footage or pap snaps, no lens peering into his soul. The soul that most people thought was as guilty as sin, that should be made to feel shame.

He voiced none of this to Sam, he didn't have to, she knew. She was well aware of his desire to hide himself away, let them all forget about him, but she also knew that he couldn't do that forever. Demons had to be confronted, and now was as good a time as any.

They wandered the parkland paths, arm in arm, looking at the fantastic view across to Canary Wharf and along the River. They watched the 1pm ball drop on the top of Flamsteed House, then settled themselves on the rug, in a sunny, sheltered spot.

He lay back, fingers interlaced across his stomach and closed his eyes, the sun warming his face.

"Don't look for a job just yet, Sam," he murmured, drowsily," let's just spend a bit of time, yeah?Just a month, maybe two, just you and me."

"You mean I'm to be a kept woman?" Chuckling, she brushed her fingertips across his brow, and watched him relax into the touch.

"I want a different life, Sam, I'm just so sick of all the shit. I need to float for a bit, let the pain of it all go. I can only do that with you here with me." He sat up, leaning on one elbow,

"I don't know what I'm going to do next, not yet, but I need time to figure it all out. Please?"

In his eyes, cast down as they were, she could see that pain, that anger, etched there, in the radiant blue.

"Malcolm, I need you, just as much as you need me. I spent ages aching for you, wanting you. We're a team now, a partnership. Whatever we do; tomorrow, next week, next year...lets do it together!"

**"We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us."...Joseph Campbell. **

Time passes, and we accept what is thrown at us and deal with it as best we can.

Malcolm Tucker began, gradually, purposefully, to emerge from his self imposed exile. Sam introduced him to her elder brother Paul, and his wife Tina. Paul worked in IT and was something of a boffin, clever and witty. The two men liked each other immensely. It's true that it took Paul a little time to get used to Malcolm's liberal use of the word 'fuck' but, apart from that, they became friends...yes, actual friends, it was possible, Sam teased him.

Whilst they were not exactly Brad and Angelina, Malcolm and Sam, were, on occasion now, seen 'out and about' in London. Restaurants, cinema or theatre, or perhaps at an exhibition or gallery.

To be fair, the fine British Press thought that Mr. Tucker had disappeared to Venezuela or shot himself, so completely had he fallen off the radar, and they were quick to pounce on a photo opportunity. The couple even bumped into Julius Nicholson at a Private Gallery showing. The encounter was a rather uncomfortable one, which involved an awkward handshake and some very forced smiles, but Sam had squeezed his hand tight, close by his side, out of view...and hissed,

"Be nice...!"

The moment passed off without incident.

Nights still remained a major problem for Malcolm. He would retire late, usually in the early hours. His newly rekindled desire undiminished, he would wrap himself so close to Sam, that she could barely breathe. Making love to her was, to him, not so much a physical act in itself, more a deep seated need, a necessity. To experience the wonderful feeling of being wanted, and loved in return. Come morning though, Sam almost always woke alone. His body demanding he rise before dawn, out of habit, and these were his most empty and desolate moments.

Several days passed, uneventfully. Sam was busy sorting out the details for renting her flat. As far as Malcolm was concerned, she lived with him, and gradually, bit by bit, her goods and chattels found their way into his cupboards and wardrobes, and his loft was full of her boxes. Reluctant to sell but glad of the income, she decided letting to tenants would be a good idea. Talking on her mobile, to the estate agent, she heard his landline ring. The velvet Scots burr, suddenly sounded an octave higher, seconds later, she heard,

"Fuck off and leave me alone!"

Curious, she peered into the hallway.

"Fucking hell, that was John, from the Express, they want to do a piece on me," he fumed,

"'life after The Fall, how I dragged myself back from the abyss'...cunts!"

Sam raised an eyebrow...she had expected this.

During the next 48 hours, more calls came.

"How did they get my fucking number?"

Malcolm was apoplectic with rage.

It wasn't until Sam was followed, and accosted in the supermarket, by another journalist that he finally snapped. That evening they packed a suitcase and caught the train to Glasgow.

Meeting Malcolm's sister, Nancy, and her husband Frank, and Malcolm's niece and nephew, Maggie and Fraser, was an unexpected revelation, a real eye-opener for Sam.

On entering the house, Malcolm was immediately set upon by the boisterous children, screaming,

"Uncle Malc!"

They rushed at him, flinging themselves, as he swung them around, in turn,

"Hey...you wee monkeys...!"

The decibel level almost painful, as they capered around him, excited and happy, and he allowed them each to take one hand and lead him to view their new play house.

Sam was, frankly, stunned. This side of the man, she had never seen, would have never expected to see. Watching through the kitchen window, as he folded himself in half practically, to enter their wooden house, accepting a plastic cup of tea and pretending to drink it theatrically. Tears, came to her eyes, unbidden, she could not explain them.

Sam liked Nancy, very much. Her impression was, that Malcolm had been her protector, her ally and her succour from their father's wrath, in their childhood, and the bond between them, despite the miles and the years was strong.

The two women found a great deal of common ground. Nancy, like Malcolm, was sharp and clever. Leaving the men in charge of the children, they embarked on a girlie night out. It gave her a chance to learn more of the young Malcolm and who he really was. It would seem, he hadn't changed so significantly at all. He had just become extremely adept at hiding his true self.

"You are so good for him Sam," Nancy was emotional.

"You're just what he needs. I've been so worried about him, but now he has you, I feel so much happier."

"I love him, that's all there is to it really," she shrugged.

" I felt it when I first started working for him, but, the job, you know, it was all encompassing.

Now...well...now it's different."

Nancy reached across and squeezed her hand. Words were unnecessary.

A Disney nightlight glowed in Fraser's bedroom. Sam crept along the landing, when they returned home, as quietly as possible, and peeped in. Malcolm was propped against the headboard, legs outstretched, feet crossed. The little tousled head, thumb in mouth, lay against his chest. Arm encircling the child, his voice rumbled in low, subdued tones as he read The Gruffalo.

She turned and tiptoed away, throat tight, eyes stinging.

They stayed with Nancy and Frank for the week. Malcolm showed Sam around the city of his birth. They drove out to Loch Lomond and up to Fort William. Scenery so beautiful, a soft purple haze over Ben Nevis, even the weather was kind to them. It made her so happy to see him so relaxed and at ease.

Leaving to return to London, the children clung to him and to Sam too.

"Come back and see us soon Uncle Malc...promise?"

" We both promise, OK? Soon!"

Nothing significant occurred in the months that followed their return from Scotland. Other than the press continuing to call from time to time requesting an interview with Malcolm. One that he resolutely refused to give.

Sam began job hunting and secured an interview with a small law firm. Fate saw to it that she missed the appointment due to a stomach upset.

It was that very evening that her brother, Paul called. He was opening a new London office, and wondered if Sam would like a PA job there. She accepted on the spot.

Malcolm had also been busy. Since returning from his sister's he had flirted with the idea of consultancy work. Which he could do either from home or a small office.

Sam tried to persuade him to start writing his memoirs, but it was still too soon, to raw. He needed to be dispassionate, and, as yet, that was impossible.

Life began to settle into a comfortable rhythm.

Eight months had flown by since the acquittal. Malcolm and Sam had barely been apart. Each day he thanked the gods for his life now. Such happiness, only showed him how bloody miserable he had been before, although he'd thought himself well off.

For Sam, working now and sharing her life with the force of nature that was Malcolm Tucker, there could be nothing else on Earth to add to the sheer contentment she felt. Coming home to him every evening, sharing a meal, a glass of wine, curling up beside him, was everything she ever wanted.

The end of a busy week. Sam was feeling inexplicably tired and irritable. Achy limbs, weary and sore. Malcolm had snuggled up to her in bed as usual, and was soon kissing and stroking her. He touched her breast, and she flinched away. Her reaction stopped him cold, his eyes wide and anxious.

"Everything OK?" His voice trembled, although he tried to sound nonchalant.

"I'm sorry Malc, I don't feel very sexy tonight. Just leave me to sleep."

She turned to face away from him, drawing up her knees.

A cold hand, gripped his heart...Christ, did she not fancy him any more? She'd never, ever pushed him away like this. He was confused. Dark thoughts of rejection entered his mind. Reaching a hand to her, his long fingers resting on her hip...

"Have I done something wrong?" He fought to remain controlled. Sensing his tension, Sam turned back.

"No, silly!" She yawned, " I feel like shit, Malc, have done for a couple of days. I've got a quack appointment tomorrow. Thought I might be anaemic."

He breathed his relief. She hadn't mentioned it.

"Didn't think it it was that bad, but I felt worse today, I'll be fine. Don't worry, the doc will sort me out!"

Saying 'don't worry' was guaranteed to make him do just that!

Two minds in turmoil. Sam was actually, extremely concerned, she hadn't been feeling well for longer than a couple of days, more like a couple of weeks, and she was beginning to think that something was really wrong with her. Malcolm was, if he was honest, scared. He was sure Sam was trying to make light of her illness, and he could sense her anxiety.

He insisted on accompanying her to the surgery the following day. Wild horses wouldn't have prevented him.

Part of her wanted to see the doctor alone. If it was something bad, she wanted to hear it by herself. Collect her thoughts, then tell Malcolm. But he was having none of it. So, it was, together, his hand clutched in hers, faces pale, that they entered, to hear the test results.

The doctor looked from one white mask to the other, and smiled. He gestured them to sit.

"Well!" He said cheerfully, "I have good news, Ms Cassidy, you are expecting a baby!"

The stunned silence that greeted these words was palpable. Malcolm and Sam turned slowly towards each other, mouths agape like a pair of codfish.

"But...I don't understand," she stammered, "how?"

The doctor chuckled,

"Well, my dear," he said, "if you don't know how..."

Malcolm cut in, annoyed, at his flippancy,

"But she's on the fucking pill doc!"

"Perhaps you forgot to take it...or..."

"Wait a sec," Sam's brain was whirring...

"That stomach upset I had a couple of months ago...I was vomiting and...oh god!"

Back home Malcolm was still trying to take it all in. He was silent, although his heart soared, he looked terrified.

Sam slid her fingers into his palm, and regarded him quizzically,

"Are we OK with this?... Say something...talk to me for gods sake!"

He pulled her onto his lap, his exquisite fingers caressing her belly.

"Fucking hell, Sam, I don't believe it, it's wonderful, but I don't believe it!" His voice was soft and bewildered.

"There's actually a bairn in there, MY child...mine...ours! I could shout, and sing and dance, I could yell it from the rooftops, but I'm fucking petrified!"

His hand circled her stomach as he spoke, lips close to her ear, placing tiny kisses against her hair and her neck. She nuzzled into his chest.

"What about you?" He remarked eventually, "is this what you want?"

"Well...it's a shock, and that's a fact," she frowned," but there is not a person on this planet, who is more happy than I am right now!"

"Just wait till I tell Nancy...she'll fucking explode!"

"Nice to know my cock works as well!"

Peels of laughter echoed through the house.

A month later, Malcolm and Sam were seated in a quiet booth in a little French restaurant just off Covent Garden. Sam knew something was up, Malcolm had been very nervy and jittery all day. Jumping around like a cat on hot bricks.

She decided to say nothing.

The waiter cleared their dessert plates, with a polite cough.

Malcolm, reached across the empty table and took Sam's hands in his own.

"There's something I need to ask you."

Sam swallowed, looking right into those expectant blue eyes.

Without another word, Malcolm slid sideways out of the booth seat and knelt down on the floor, he reached into his pocket, fumbling out a small, square, velvet box.

Voice husky and thick with emotion, he opened it and presented it to her, still holding her left hand in his own.

"Samantha Cassidy, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"


	4. Chapter 4

A couple of notes about the wedding: The venue really exists and is Dalmeny Park near Glasgow, which is beautiful without being too ostentatious. Malcolm being Malcolm I fear he resolutely refused to wear a kilt...and would have felt more comfortable in his suit. The vows, I chose because I strongly felt, that they both needed to say their own words rather than the traditional responses.

Malcolm's face when he sees Paul's revelation, I liken to Season 3. Ep 7 of TTOI, when he is forced to resign, and turns to see it emblazoned on the TV screen.  
Greg Fraser is Malcolm's lawyer, whom he asks Sam to call, prior to his arrest in Series 4. He appears with Malcolm on the steps of Hackney Police Station in TTOI.

PART FOUR. VOWS AND VINDICATIONS.

"Samantha Cassidy, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

The strangled sob that left Sam, as she looked down into his anxious face, would have done Emma Thompson proud! Although this was no 'Sense and Sensibility' scenario!  
Throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him up, into a bear crunching embrace, kissing his damp face over and over again,  
"Yes, Malcolm...God! Yes and a thousand times yes!"  
He slid into the booth at her side and taking her left hand, slipped the ring on her finger.  
A gasp was all Sam could manage. A trio of diamonds, set in a twist of gold on either side, it glittered in the candle light.  
Her hand outstretched, fingers splayed, turning the ring to catch the sparkle. Her face was radiant, tears brimming, other hand resting against her chest, to temper her rapid breathing.  
The waiter bought coffee, and red roses, which Malcolm had organised beforehand. This instigated a fresh onslaught of sobs and crushing hugs.

The wedding was arranged for two months time. By which time Sam would be roughly four months into her pregnancy. Neither wanted a lavish affair.  
Malcolm found a country house hotel, near to Glasgow; old, ivy clad and in a beautiful setting. It was perfect. Nancy, Frank and the children would be there, and Paul and Tina would travel up and spend the weekend. Sam had hoped to persuade Malcolm to ask Jamie McDonald, but, as part of his old life, he somehow couldn't bring himself to make the call.

As best man, Frank stood at his brother-in-law's side. Resplendent in his Armani suit, a pale rose in his buttonhole, Malcolm fidgeted nervously.  
As both Mr and Mrs Cassidy senior had died many years before, Paul agreed to give Sam away. Her hair was swept up, curled and secured with real rosebuds. She wore a boucle Chanel dress and jacket in cream, with contrasting piping. The slight rounding of her belly, only barely noticeable.  
A sharp intake of breath left Malcolm as he locked eyes with her.

Malcolm had chosen a Pablo Neruda sonnet (XVII) for his vows, his voice trembled with emotion as he spoke the words;

I love you without knowing how,  
or when, or from where.  
I love you straightforwardly,  
without complexities or pride;  
so I love you because I know  
no other way than this:  
where 'I' does not exist, nor 'you'  
so close that your hand  
on my chest is my hand,  
so close that your eyes close  
as I fall asleep.

Sam reached forward and took his hand in hers, she spoke quietly but firmly in reply;

I take you to be my best friend,  
my faithful partner  
and my one true love.  
I promise to encourage you  
and inspire you  
and to love you truly,  
through good times and bad.  
I will forever be there  
to laugh with you,  
to lift you up when you are down,  
and to love you unconditionally  
through all of our adventures in life  
together...

Ceremony complete, the new Mr and Mrs Tucker, enjoyed the rest of a wonderful, happy weekend, with the people closest to them in the world. Their utter joy was tangible.

A small article appeared in the press...

Freed Communications Director Weds Former PA….…the marriage of Malcolm Tucker to Samantha Cassidy took place today….Ms Cassidy is understood to be expecting the couple's first child later this year…..

During the weeks that followed their marriage, Malcolm was bombarded with offers from the newspapers. They were very keen to have the 'human story' behind the once powerful man. Although he really did not want to dwell on his past life, very much wishing to leave it behind, he was beginning to feel, that there were certain things that needed to be said. Records that needed straightening, hatchets that needed burying. So he acquiesced.  
The article agreed upon encompassed a little of the background of the Goolding Enquiry, his subsequent trial and a few details of his home life as it now stood. Some of the old Malcolm resurfaced;  
"I still have some contacts in high places, and if you cunts print anything I don't like I'll rip out your fucking livers and eat them for dinner," he warned.

By the time the piece went to press, Sam was six months pregnant.  
Each passing week was, to Malcolm, a source of wonderment. To lie beside her, his hand resting on the swell of her abdomen, feeling the movement within. To stroke the curve of her as she grew, to see the radiance and glow of her, was a constant sense of thrill and anticipation.

They were enjoying a quiet evening in, when the telephone rang. Sam answered. It was Paul.  
"Is Malc there, sis?" his voice sounded breathy and flustered.  
"Sure," she replied," pop round."  
Within half an hour Paul Cassidy was at the Tucker house. Newspapers, files and computer, strewn across the coffee table.  
"I've been looking at your press article," his rapid fingers tapped his laptop keyboard, "I've noticed something that I think might shock you."  
Malcolm and Sam exchanged glances.  
Pages from the newspaper appeared on the screen and he scrolled through them quickly.  
"Malc, how much do you remember of what was said at the Enquiry?"  
Malcolm frowned, every detail was irrevocably etched in his memory.  
"I have a complete transcript...somewhere, and the whole thing was filmed, it was used as evidence at the trial."  
Sam hurried to her husband's study and began rummaging through the desk. Returning with the labelled disc.  
"What caught my attention, was this...it says in this paragraph, that you were cropped out of this photo..."  
Up popped the picture of Nicola Murray, with the 'quiet bat people' papers under her arm. Malcolm grimaced.  
Paul bought up the uncropped version of the image from the disc and zoomed in on Malcolm himself, standing to one side, poppy in his overcoat lapel, a file tucked under his arm.  
"I wanted to see this original full version," he said,  
"At first, I didn't notice anything," the picture shimmered into clarity, as he drew in closer and closer, numbers at the top of Malcolm's file became clearly visible.  
"This software can zoom to 1 million by 1 million pixels," he said, rolling the mouse to enhance the view.  
Sam and Malcolm leaned in towards the screen. They could both see the NHS and National Insurance number of Mr Tickel, as well as two telephone numbers.  
"What WAS actually on the top of that page in the file Malc?" Paul asked, turning to face his bemused brother-in-law, "because I think this has been doctored!"  
"WHAT!...HOW!"  
Sam gasped aloud, hand over her mouth in horror, as her eyes scanned the image.  
"You can't see it just by looking at a blown up version, they wouldn't have seen it at the Enquiry or the trial, but if you use this software to look closely, you can see that there are changes in the pattern of the pixels, it's a form of photoshop."  
There was a note of triumph in Paul's voice.  
"Not just anyone could have done this, Malc, it would require specialist IT knowledge!"

Malcolm Tucker stood silent in his own living room. He stared intently at the screen, his eyes narrowed, face taut, jaw clenched tight. He blinked several times, as if trying prevent the brimming wetness under his lashes. His fists closing and flexing at his sides.  
"Oh, Malcolm...!" Sam whispered, almost unable to control her own rising nausea.

Malcolm turned on his heel, marching out of the room and into his study. He shut the door behind him. Sam watched him go, quaking where she stood, and made as if to follow him. Paul caught her wrist.  
"Let him be." He said.  
Sitting down in his leather chair, hands spread before him on his desk, Malcolm retched and sucked air into his lungs, as if he were choking.  
During The Enquiry, the Trial, he'd gone over and over it a thousand times in his mind. What HAD been in that file? He REALLY couldn't remember. His briefing notes, various documents, some letters, but the page with the phone numbers? He didn't remember ever having seen it. So convenient that it was just visible. He'd thought about it until his head ached.  
He remembered the cold lurch in his gut, the moment the picture had been displayed on the Enquiry screen. It had taken him unawares, he, the Great Malcolm Tucker, had been rendered speechless.  
It was THE moment he knew, he had no answers, THE moment it all came crashing down. He was fucked. He TRUTHFULLY didn't know how the numbers got there.

The vein on his temple bulged. His harsh breathing did not diminish, rather, it increased. He felt pain as if his chest would burst.  
With harsh, juddering cries of FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! he began to sweep the contents from the top of his desk, wildly scattering them onto the floor. He hurled a glass paperweight across the room, where it shattered against the wall with a sickening crash.  
Sam flung open the door, face blanched white, as he continued to launch anything within reach towards the opposite wall. Books, papers, files. Ripping the computer keyboard from its wire, half sobbing, half bellowing all the while, he smashed it repeatedly against the side of the bookcase.  
Sam reached his side as he collapsed back into the chair, beating his fists against the desk. At first as she enveloped him in her arms, he tried to shove her away, but she would not be vanquished. Grabbing him firmly, she held him, stroking his head, as he lowered it to his hands on the desk top, the yells becoming broken weeping at last.  
Paul handed him a whiskey as he fought to regain control of himself, he knocked it back in one swallow, hands trembling.  
Hours later, weary and spent, he lay curled beside Sam, mind whirring. Her fingers running lightly through his steel grey hair.  
"What are you going to do Malc?" Her voice full of concern.  
"Part of me wants to just leave it, I've moved on, it's over, fuck the lot of them," he replied dully,  
"But the rest of me wants to nail their fucking arses to the wall, flay the skin of whoever's responsible." His anger rose.  
"How dare they fuck with me, Sam, how dare they ruin my reputation, my fucking life, everything I ever stood for. They're cunts, every one of them. But, guess what? I'm Indiana Tucker and the Bum Dildo of Vengeance...and I'm going to take them down!"

Next morning he placed a call to Greg Fraser.

A flurry of hastily arranged meetings punctuated the days that followed. An official investigation was set in motion and the files and information that Malcolm and Paul had gathered were handed over to the Police.  
A month passed before a glimmer of light began to shine through the mire of hidden paper trails and computer links. The trail wound through the newspaper offices. Interviews with journalists, led back to DoSAC and two names seemed to crop up with increasing frequency; Oliver Reader, and a close friend of his, a certain Russell Brewer.

Fire had been kindled in Malcolm's belly. He was determined, now, that whatever he had to go through, those who had conspired to destroy his career, would pay. He also found that he had allies, from his past life, who came forward to support him. Glenn Cullen was one of these.

Sam, great with child, had waddled into the kitchen to make tea. Malcolm was reading through files from his days at DoSAC that she had downloaded for him, on that fateful last day.  
"MALCOLM!...I need you, come here!"  
The urgency in her voice made him jump up.  
She was standing by the sink, watching as liquid cascaded down her legs and onto the floor.  
Panic gripped him.  
"Malc...I need you to focus...go and phone the midwife!"

Malcolm Tucker was not renowned for his patience in his previous life! Although he had improved somewhat since being in a relationship. Babies, however, will not be rushed, and waiting for one to make it's appearance can be arduous.  
To be fair, he did all that was asked of him. Having no experience of actual birth whatever, he felt a little like a spare part.  
He rubbed Sam's back with each contraction, mopped her sweating forehead, held her clammy hand, whispered encouragement to her from time to time and made more cups of tea than he ever had in his entire life!  
Not being in control of the situation was hard for him. Sam had to do all the work, he couldn't shoulder that burden. Seeing her in so much agony, he found really quite distressing, as she panted and breathed and tried to ride the waves of pain, he felt helpless to do anything much to make it easier for her.  
The midwife was, as they almost always are, marvellous. Calm and assured, she helped Sam to remain focussed and told Malcolm what to do and say to ease her along.  
The hours crawled by, and Sam was tiring.  
"Come on darling, just one last effort, you can do this!"  
He was sitting on the floor, legs either side of her, her back resting against his chest. One hand circling her swollen belly, the other being squeezed to within an inch of its life by his tortured wife. She was almost there.  
Malcolm shifted round to kneel beside her left knee, leaving her to rest back. The head was visible and he watched, mesmerised as it began to emerge. Nothing on earth could have prepared him for the moment his son was born. With one final heroic endeavour, Sam pushed, and arms, torso and legs slid out into the midwife's waiting grasp.  
The infant wailed lustily, as the nurse deftly cut the chord, swaddled him and handed him to his father. Malcolm cradled the tiny mewling bundle, and looked from it to his wonderful, beautiful wife.  
"You are amazing!" He bent and kissed her lips tenderly, presenting their son to her, " look what you've done, you clever girl!"  
Exhausted, she smiled up at him, her face still flushed from the effort. The shawl loosened and a little pink arm poked out.  
"Good god, Malcolm, he's got your hands...look at those fingers!"  
It was true; baby Tucker had long narrow, delicate, artistic digits, just like his proud Dad.

It was three in the morning. Both Sam and the new baby were sleeping soundly and gratefully.  
Malcolm sat alone in his study, feet on the desk, in the dim lamplight, a tumbler of whiskey at his elbow. He replayed the moment of that birth over and over in his mind. The euphoria of it, the miracle of new life. Did anything else really matter to him anymore? Did he really care about what was past? Somehow these things seemed to pale into insignificance. This well of deep attachment that he had to his wife, and now his child, seemed immeasurably more important. He sighed, drained his glass and went to bed. He slept the sleep of the righteous.

There was to be a court case. There were charges to be answered. Russell Brewer, had, most certainly been responsible for digitally manipulating the photograph. He had certainly not acted of his own volition, he had been recruited by another person higher up. Malcolm and Sam attended every day, despite having a very tiny baby.  
The whole process bought back painful memories for Malcolm. Seeing himself standing in the box being questioned, standing there once again whilst reliving his own trial, was emotionally wearing. He listened to both Russell and Ollie's testimonies. He was within a foot of his young successor, as he stepped up.  
"Wanker!" He hissed under his breath.  
Ollie, turned towards him sharply and was treated to Malcolm's most vicious burning glare.  
Yes, despite everything, it DID still matter, he DID still care, he wanted closure. He needed to be vindicated. He wanted justice.  
On the final day, Russell was found guilty of falsifying government documents. He received a fine and a custodial sentence. Oliver Reader, somehow managed to slip the noose. But his credibility was shot, and he would never work in government circles again, no one would trust him.  
Malcolm made a statement on the court steps,  
"Today, marks the end of almost two years of living under the shadow of the Goolding Enquiry's repercussions. My only wish now, is to move on with my life and enjoy time with my wife, who has been an unfailing support, and my new baby. I have nothing further to add. Thank you."

Two weeks later Malcolm and Sam and the baby were in a villa on the Amalfi Coast in Italy.

This story now ties in with the mini Fic 'New Horizons'. I hope you enjoyed it. It's been a lot of fun to write.


End file.
